


New Wounds, New Friends

by Muccamukk



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Gen, Getting to Know Each Other, Gunshot Wounds, Hurt/Comfort, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-09
Updated: 2018-01-09
Packaged: 2019-03-01 05:34:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 569
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13288074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Muccamukk/pseuds/Muccamukk
Summary: During the Athos' early days with the regiment, Aramis wakes not knowing where he is.





	New Wounds, New Friends

**Author's Note:**

  * For [aqwt101](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aqwt101/gifts).



Consciousness lit inside Aramis' skull, guttered dangerously, and then finally flared into a thousand blazing points right behind his eyes. It felt something like the most dire of hangovers, save that the rest of him hurt too. Hangover after drinking with Porthos?

He could hear Porthos' voice, low and relaxed beside him, so maybe that was were they'd been. The Blue Rooster? He'd never trusted the wine there. No, they were... they were somewhere south, with the king.

Porthos laughed like he was winning, and Aramis tried to raise his head only to have gloved hand press it firmly back against the table he'd been sleeping on. Why was he sleeping it off on his stomach on a table?

They'd been south with the king, who'd sent them out to patrol the lines—Aramis, Porthos and that new prig who drank instead of talking and could split a candle down the centre without snuffing the flame.

There was his voice too—Athos like the mountain—Aramis barely knew the sound, he'd spoken so little since he'd joined the regiment. Now he was telling Aramis to stay down, and not to move.

Aramis' ass really hurt, more than his head even, and not in the sort of way it did after a night with Marie-Eve. He tried to push his body up again, but the hand lay on his head like a sand bag.

Porthos spoke into his ear, his tone conversational: "The surgeon said if you want to ride a horse again, you'd better stay down."

Aramis had been walking. They'd dismounted and were in the village square, and then... Aramis groaned. There'd been a shot, a bullet ricocheting off the edge of the well, the gleam of a second musket across the street, and Porthos and Athos with their backs to it. Aramis had thrown himself at Porthos just as the musket sighted in, incidentally putting himself between the shot and Athos. Pain in his leg, his body jerked, and he'd gone head first into the side of the well.

"Ugh," Aramis said in summation. Porthos held a flask of wine to his lips, and he managed to wet his mouth even though most of it dribbled onto the table. "You hurt?"

"No," Porthos answered. "I'm fine. We've taken over the inn."

"I am also unharmed," Athos added dryly, clearly aware that Aramis hadn't asked and likely didn't care. "But if you insist on getting up, you'll spoil our game."

"That'd be a shame," Porthos agreed. "Specially since I'm winning."

Wonderful. Aramis had passed out from a combined bullet wound and blow to the head, and his best friend was cheating their new, disagreeable comrade at cards, on Aramis' back. He dropped his head and closed his eyes again, muttering, "Wake me up when I'm allowed to move again."

"Well go out when you're up," Porthos promised. "Paint Paris red. Athos is paying."

Coins clinked on the small of his back, and Athos hummed in a tone that somehow managed to convey that he knew he was being hustled but didn't especially mind. Aramis must have been groogy because he felt a sudden flash of affection for the man. As if in response, Athos' left hand slid off Aramis' head to rest on his shoulder, steadying him instead of holding him down.

Porthos drew a card from the stack on Aramis' other shoulder, and laughed again.

Aramis slept.


End file.
